Daniel Simko

Country: Slovakia

Go on and on.

It is a fact that now you understand the music.
The kind that is played quickly, and in terror.

The one whose skull you last saw sunning itself.

Yet it is important to carry on,
to continue speaking

in the arrested voice you once used in a different language.
To simply continue speaking.

The one whose skull you last saw sunning itself.

It is bothersome to exorcise history.
It is just a flat row of wheat, a cut poplar.

As for trees, they always remain singular.

What else is there to say, and how many ways to say it

You, being the I.


It is so. It touches the clothes
with the rustle of leaves under a naked back,

And to sleep a little less now
is a small compassion.

That darkness you see, a land
of darkness, is darkness itself.

To be mad is to be like this.
Prayer is like this: to live on nothing.

Even I, the judicious failed scholar
find no reason for this.

Tomorrow, if I remember,
I will continue to repeat the same.

The way a face is pure.
The way fear is pure.

How simple it all becomes.
Thy deed is done.


after a photograph almost taken in Berlin

Wet slate roofs.  Pigeons.  A light.
A leaf on the sidewalk.
The shadows slipping between cobblestones.

It is already dusk
when you arrive
from Paris,
smoke rising from the Diesel
as you step out
with your black hair untied.

I am almost always
turning into that smoke,
into the pigeons landing
on the glass roof.

Or I wake up
and you come
with a shawl
black with stars.

Paris, 1980